Faction Tales from the Empire [TSE Stories]

[Imperial Proletariat]

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Oversector II
Telos IV

Harbormaster Molvohu continued to jot down the past day's cargo records even as the droning hum of the holo-screen at his back continued to eat away at the periphery of his concentration. His four lekku twitched in mild agitation at the intrusion, but it was considered an offense to completely silence or even disable the government-mandated holo-screens stationed pervasively throughout the Empire's vast holdings. The screen's volume could be lowered, but no more than a still audible droning. That meant that he could still make out what was being said, and as usual it was another government broadcast of the ongoing war with the Jedi. It was almost impossible to differentiate what was truth and what was fiction, for though portions of it must have been fabricated there was still enough truth to muddle the perception of those who listened in.​

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Right now the monotone hypnotic voice was regaling the audience with tales of Imperial and Sith heroism, and Jedi atrocity and barbarism. Molvohu would have laughed if he didn't fear those who were undoubtedly listening in on him through the holo-screen at this very moment. He had seen such happenings before, overly vocal critics of the Empire suddenly disappearing the next day. He may have owned his own reservations with how the Sith handled things, but he kept them buried deep inside his mind. How quickly one learned to keep one's outer thoughts a blank slate when the Sith were involved.​

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Despite that, Molvohu still knew in his heart that the Sith's declarations of Jedi atrocities were false. He had lived on Telos IV for many decades, and he remembered when the Silver Jedi had once controlled much of this area of the Outer Rim before they were driven Coreward by the Sith Empire. The Jedi may have been disconnected and aloof from the plight of the galaxy's citizenry, they were not monsters. He had known quite a few honorable and good Jedi in his time, but he could count the amount of honorable and good Sith on one hand, if even that! Still, he tried to focus on his work rather than the droning of the screen behind him. By the Sith's own admission, 'Peace was a Lie,' and the distant war with the Jedi wasn't going anywhere as far as Molvohu was concerned, he predicted that he'd hear a similar story tomorrow. ​

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When they came for him, they came in the dead of night. He never even suspected them, never even heard them. In the morning the disappearance of the harbormaster passed with little incidence, and a replacement was quickly appointed by the local Prelate in the following hours. ​

 

[AMCO]

Scribe T'vend of the Sith-Imperial Banking Clan was having a rather poor day - it had started like her days usually started, by manually trawling through expense reports and whatever else her superiors dumped on her desk for any discrepancy their automated systems failed to catch.

She had caught plenty of small fish, in the last few years of service, but their systems were really very good; this was the first big one, and Emperor's Balls was it a doozy. Rubbing her furry forehead, she stared at the offending line of text as if willing it to say something else, anything else. Tax evasion, had to be. Just the thing they were supposed to catch, to make an example of... but most tax evaders weren't Sith Lords.

She should inform her boss, she knew, and he'd tell his boss, who'd tell his boss, and then maybe the right gears would be put into motion. All because of her. Of course, if any of these people had let this slip through the cracks on purpose, she was thoroughly karked.

The Saaraishash, then. She'd give them an anonymous tip... that was possible, right?

It really ought to be.

 

[Kenth Haruss]

The journey from New Alderaan to Telos was a hop, skip and jump. Then another jump, a few more hops and yeah, you were there. Not the longest trip one could make across the galaxy, but it sure wasn't the shortest either. Still, bills needed paying and checks need writing. The truth was Buzz Saw Solutions' credit tank was running dry. Kenth could only tap into the remains of the family account so many times before admitting defeat. Buzz Saw's scrappers ran a job near Orleon a month back but the Plump Pilgrim was starting to look scrappy herself. Repairs devoured all compensation on that job and then some.

And that left Kenth here - even further within Imperial borders. The Haruss man didn't dislike the Empire; they effectively kept his ship in one piece, his crew fed and credits in the account. If you did your job effectively, kept all documentation in pristine order, and didn't step on their toes they mostly left you to your business. This was something Kenth was banking here and now.

He shuffled through a small market place, dodging locals and doing his best to ignore the smell of bantha beef wafting in the air. He'd eat soon enough. After securing a new client for the Buzz Saw crew, the Bakuran just had to make one last stop. One under the table deal would go unnoticed, right? What choice did he have? BSS would sink without some legitimate income (or not so legitimate in this case) and the minuscule vial of the rare isotope was worth five times over to this particular client than it was to the Empire. There was no true protocol regarding the matter. No obligation to sell them his higher quality finds.

With the back of his brown leather glove, Kenth swept away the cascading beads of sweat running down his head. Just this one job, this one questionable, in the gray job to keep BSS afloat. The scrapper saw the small yellow marquee of the Mirror's Match, a bar & grill, local hotspot, and handoff location for the goods he was carrying. He took a corner seat within the alfresco section of the eatery and waited.

Keep cool; keep cool, he thought to himself.

Minutes felt as days. Any of the passersby could be someone who caught wind of this little exchange. What if they weren't just darting about town attending their own business? What if they were on to him? No no, calm, he told himself.

"Hey! You there," An Imperial trooper called out to the Bakuran.

Should he run? Should he fight? No, of course not. He'd be planted on his rear then shot in heartbeat.

"Muh muh, me?" He asked pointing at himself.
"Yeah you," the trooper replied.

Kenth seized up. This was it. He was caught. One time. It was only one time, but with the Empire one was enough to kill.

"You got the time? My whole system is on the fritz," the trooper asked.

Shoulder's loosened, the neck relaxed. Kenth was the victim of his own conscience.

"Uh yeah, 1835, Imperial standard," Kenth answered.
"Looks like my route's almost up. Enjoy your meal sir," the trooper said despite Kenth's empty table. Walking away he spoke to himself, "I really need to get this thing fixed."

Kenth lucked out this time.

 

[Joycelyn Zambrano]

"Out of all places, why here?"

-the disguised consort asked the Princess as they stepped into the seedy cantina and strode over to the bar. Joycelyn Zambrano did not answer right away, but sat down on one of the taller stools and put a few credits on the counter before making two signals with her hand: Index and middle finger, indicating two, then pinky finger to indicate the kind of alcohol.

"Have we run out of booze?" he asked incredulously, impudent even.

Joycelyn just smiled as two tumblers of clear liquid was put in front of them. She picked up her glass and gestured for her guard to do the same, then downed it. It was a foul drink; it burned like hellfire, yet its flavour was bitter and stale. And the both of them wrinkled their faces in disgust, while Joycelyn waved her hand once more with another gesture.

"If not the booze, is it the company?" He asked again, looking over his shoulder.

The patronage could be politely described as seedy, although wretched would be more accurate. He saw at least three known, local criminals he recognised from his briefing about the area. The others were spacers and ruffians, the kind of people he always thought he would be saving a princess from, not seek out and drink with.

"Apologies My Princess but-" His words were cut off as Joycelyn set her eyes on him hard and his blood turned to ice in his veins. "I'm sorry, I did n-"

"These are our people." She whispered back, placing her right hand on his back and lifted her glass between the fingers of her left. "Not the masses gawking during parades or the weeping widows of our fallen dead." "Our real people." "For all our lofty speeches and grand decrees, for all our ideals and wars in the name of the Force, these are the only constant of our realm." The man looked at them again, at their weary faces and troubled brows, at the smiles of friends reunited, or the decadent indulgence of a single tumbler of this foul liquid. "My people, at least."

She downed her second drink, and the young man followed suit, choking down a cough after.

"Your subjects-" he began "My people" Joycelyn corrected "I fear for my personal security." "You are right to."